


Lights Out Enforcement Policies

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars [147]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, Poor Sleeping Habits, Shebnanigans, Star Wars AU - Soft Wars, brothers being brothers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:02:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29773107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: Bly stays up late reading.  17 objects.
Series: Soft Wars [147]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775
Comments: 16
Kudos: 260





	Lights Out Enforcement Policies

Light, searing and insistent, slams through the dorm with the force of a hurricane.

A yowl, that’d be Wolffe.

“Mercy,” whimpers a voice. “Mercyyyyyy you _monster_.”

Sigh. Ponds.

That means that grumble-grumble-grumble-rustle-THUMP is Cody, characteristically falling off his bunk. His lack of coordination is impressive. Bly’s pretty sure they’re going to end up just throwing him right at the enemy one day for optimal damage. He’ll flail around and injure everything in reach.

17 keeps threatening to change out their stacked bunks for single-high; started almost the very moment they graduated from sleeping tubes. It’d cut their free space down a solid third, but maybe Cody might at least keep most of his face til the war.

Bly doesn’t curl up guilty, even though he _is_ and he wants to. He’s either already caught and there’s no point, or he’s suspected and could still give himself away.

Slowly, slowly, he eases the holopad down. Slowly. He was careful: there was no outline of the edges of it to tent his blankets. If he goes slowly, he can slip it down to the mattress without changing his silhouette. Shut it off. Close his eyes. Pretend-

The holopad powers down with a jaunty jingle.

Ponds cuts his dramatics midway through a ‘vile villain’. Wolffe coughs once, awkward. Cody punctuates his silence with a single, absent ‘ow’. Someone should check if he’s concussed again.

The air is pungent with three simultaneous exhalations of ‘ha, not me this time’.

Bly closes defeated eyes.

Caught. Declarative.

There really is no reason at all for the theatrical flair 17 puts in to ripping the blanket away. Bly is sure it flutters tragically in the air between their bunks, morosely floats to the desolate ground. Bly feels absolutely no impulse whatsoever to indulge 17’s burst of drama.

“Kid.”

If Bly were Cody, he’d greet 17 with the ballsiest blandness and lie about the holopad, lights-out, optimal hours of sleep for their development, the permanence of this existence. Ponds, Ponds would have a ready-prepped bribe. It would fail miserably, of course, but it would tug that bit of humor 17 tries to squelch during lectures.

Wolffe would say that 17 was late, that he’d been up for _hours_ and if _this_ was the kind of reaction time the Alphas were displaying maybe _17_ should consider how he’s negatively affecting his _own_ development. And furthermore what’s the _deal_ with flight rations –

Bly doesn’t have Cody’s perpetual concussed-face. He doesn’t have Ponds skill for sussing out what’ll break the tension. And he’s not got Wolffe’s delusions of comedy.

Bly’s just Bly. He doesn’t have anything like that at all.

17 sighs. “Give it.”

Bly puts two fingers into nudging the holopad away, and not a muscle more. 17 grunts. The ‘pad’s jingle cuts out.

“You didn’t even turn the sound off?”

17 must throw Ponds a _look_ for that, because he subsides with a mutter.

The question is important though because yes. Yes Bly _did_ turn the sound off.

17, that karking masochistic no-good torturer chuckles. “I wasn’t decanted last cycle, brats,” he drawls.

Bly peels open his eyes to glare. “If you _already knew_ I was awake why did you bother with all the _this_?”

“Because I’m a right bastard and I need to get my kicks somewhere,” 17 says companionably. “Because slicing your datawall and karking with your settings was a nice little puzzle before bed. Because I like it when you brats remember you’re a thousand cycles too early to pull one over on me. Take your pick.”

“Bastard,” Bly grumbles. He tries not to be impressed. He really thought he’d had it locked down this time.

“I’ve set every single alert tone on this holopad to a different default,” 17 continues because he’s not just a bastard, he’s a polished bastard. “Some of them may have a runtime of about a shift and a half. Some of them may be the Get Along Song. And some of those settings may be a little fun to find.”

Bly’s ears perk up. A little fun, to 17 means loads of twisty reasoning, passwords entered where you wouldn’t think they would be, codes –

Because he’s a polished, waxed and buffed first-run edition, one standard-deviation-away-from-the-source-of-all-bastardness bastard, 17 dangles that little teaser in front of Bly’s nose, then promptly puts the holopad out of Bly’s reach.

Bastard.

17 drops the holopad and kicks it somewhere under something. He turns and folds his arms.

He thinks it makes him look adult, like Prime or the Omegas. Little brothers, Bly remembers hearing once, always think they’re bigger than they are.

“Bly lights out was two hours ago. You should be asleep.”

Bly doesn’t glare at 17. He does glare though, right over 17’s shoulder. “I’m doing fine in sims,” he says and he wishes, dearly, that it didn’t sound as whiny as it does.

“Not the point.”

“My performance hasn’t been-”

“ _Not_ the point kid.”

“It really is.”

17 clenches his jaw, like he does when he knows Bly is right.

Bly kind of doesn’t like that feeling. It’s. Gross. Makes him feel a little ashamed of himself, kind of. He looks away.

“I’m meeting all my standards,” he narrates. “Exceeding most of em. I can carry out my duties. I’m an effective soldier. That is _literally_ the only thing in my entire existence that matters.”

“No. It is _not_.”

17 doesn't ever, really, get mad at them.

They’ve got a file, the Alphas, something they stole from the holonet and passed around and added to and made theirs. Bly found it once, digging through one of Alpha 58’s comms when he got too frustrated trying to slice one of 17’s. It says not to yell at them, their CC squads. It says not to do or say _anything_ to them when angry, if you can at all help it. Alphas wrote themselves reg manuals that said they walk away, find another Alpha if they need to get the blood pumping to work through it. Go back to their CCs when it’s passed and they can be rational.

17 stiffens. He growls the words. 17 doesn't ever really get mad at them but sometimes, sometimes he gets really hurt.

Sometimes Cody or Wolffe or Ponds will say something and 17 will go quiet, go rigid, go shelled up while he buries deep the soft spot they've found. Sometimes it's Cody or Wollfe or Ponds.

It's usually Bly.

Bly cringes. He didn’t mean to. It’s just _facts_. He didn’t mean to make 17 sad but it’s _true_ –

17 turns away. He paces the length of Bly and Ponds' bunk.

Wolffe and Cody push themselves slowly up to sitting, wary. Bly can only just see the edges of Ponds’ peeking out below, reaching out when 17 passes. 17 breathes deep, drops a hand to Ponds’ fuzzy hair they can never keep short enough for him. Bly can count 17’s breaths through the controlled rise and fall of his shoulders.

It’s one point two minutes, almost to the second, Bly counts, before 17 speaks.

“Kark the standards,” he says and Bly could almost mistake the tone for casual. 17 shoots Ponds’ worry a crooked smile. “First off don’t repeat that. Second don’t kark the standards, if you’re slipping I will help you work on that. But you get the idea.”

He pats Ponds’ hand wrapped tight in his sleeve. Ponds, reluctantly it seems, lets go.

Cody sits cross-legged on the floor, back against Wolffe’s bunk. Wolffe has his and Cody’s pillows hugged in front of him, his eyes wide-uncertain peering over the top. Bly can hear Ponds’ rustling: his skinny legs poke out to drop over the side.

17 looks around at all of them. He smiles, and it’s a little less crooked. “What’s important,” he says and he sounds very grown up. He sounds like every word means something, and Bly can’t not listen. “Is that you brats are my brats. And _I_ decide how ‘making sure you’re taken care of’ ranks in comparison to everything else. And I’ve decided it’s most important. Understand?”

Yes 17s creep meekly through the dorm. Bly says it again, louder, at 17’s expectant eyebrow.

He feels a little warm. It’s not embarrassment, like he’d expect.

“Missing sleep makes brats tired. It makes them _cranky_ and _stressed_. And unhappy. And cranky. And I have just now decided that’s not okay.”

Yes 17s again. This time with a giggle that could be Wolffe or Ponds, Bly can’t see either of their faces. Cody meets Bly’s eyes with the most vapid smile that says he’d be useless to ask.

“You said cranky twice,” Bly grumbles.

“Cranky,” 17 says and he’s why Wolffe thinks he’s a comedian. “Three times.”

Bly doesn’t pout. If Cody says otherwise, he’s lying.

Then, _then_ Bly’s entire _galaxy_ goes bucket-over-boots and if Cody or Wolffe or Ponds say he screeched like a newborn growler someone stepped on, _they are lying_.

“ _17 what the kriff!_ ”

“Oi,” 17 chides easily. Bly thrashes but he’s held firm by the waist under one solid arm. “Watch the karking language. Dunno where you pick that shit up.”

Smooth-as-synthsilk, 17 hops down from his one-footed perch on the edge of Ponds’ bunk, Bly toted like a crate of tuberstarch.

“What are you _doing_?"

“Putting brats to bed.”

“You _yanked_ me _out_ of-”

17 rattles Bly nearly hard enough to void Bly’s warranty. He ignores Bly’s murderously threatening growl.

“Budge up,” 17 orders and Ponds does precisely that with far, far too much glee. He sparkles at Bly’s glare. “You can either sleep on one end or take Bly’s bunk.”

“I’m really very fine right here,” Ponds chirps. Bly makes a note: _that_ end of his bunk must be where Ponds hides his holorecorder. 17, Bly thinks with just a little annoyance, doesn’t make a production about finding _that_ though he’s got to know where it is by now.

“I can sleep in my own bunk,” Bly tries to protest. He’s cut off ducking a wild flying arm.

Wolffe crams in on the far end mostly on top of Ponds, limbs thrashing like landed octopode. 17 snorts and gives them no extra space at all. “Sure brat. How many holopads you got hidden in the ceiling panels up there.”

“...None.”

Bly cannot lie like Cody can.

Cody wedges himself somewhere Bly can’t make out, but it bounces 17’s knee. Bly finds himself hugged firmly in 17’s lap, 17’s chin on his head.

“Yeah, ‘s what I thought. So, tomorrow we’re gonna go dig them all out and put lock-out timers on all of em. Tonight, we’re enforcing Bly Bedtime a little more expediently.”

“Happy Bly Bedtime,” Ponds simpers. Bly kicks out, but that oof was probably Wolffe.

“Simmer down sludge-bubbles,” 17 snaps.

“Ponds just kneed me in the kidneys!” Definitely Wolffe. Good, he probably deserves it.

“Floor’s cold,” Cody informs them all and proceeds to not move.”

“Nuisances,” 17 grumbles as if he didn’t _just_ tacitly encourage them all to pile on himself.

“This is a stupid idea,” Bly informs him though Bly hopes 17 has enough common sense to know _that_ much. 17 tucks him more firmly under his chin. Bly’s arms are immovably pinned. It’s too hot, there’s everyone _breathing_ and Ponds snores and Cody is going to _fall over_ and Wolffe has kicky foot twitches that are gonna mean bad things very fast. It’s kriffing uncomfortable. “If I’m supposed to go to _sleep_ in this -”

* * *

Bly wakes up to Wolffe’s stupid grinning face, way too close. “Morning starshine.”

Bly shoves him off the bunk. Ponds goes tumbling too. Cody wakes with a howl.

“Prime karking preserve me,” 17 mutters and rolls to squash Bly into the mattress.

It’s really way too kriffing uncomfortable to go to sleep like thi-


End file.
